


Borderlines

by PurplePufferFish



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Feels, Dark Thranduil, Hurt No Comfort, Parent-Child Relationship, Thranduil is a creepy father, Thranduil is a hypocritical racist, Thranduil's A+ Parenting, Triggers, but he's also just really sad, or lack thereof, poor Legolas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 13:30:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3383324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurplePufferFish/pseuds/PurplePufferFish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas was much like his mother, oftentimes too much for Thranduil to bear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Borderlines

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I hadn’t written anything in quite some time and felt that another oneshot was in order! I was simply curious about exploring the possibility that Thranduil would be somewhat triggered by mentions of his dead wife. I’m even more curious as to how this will be taken…  
> Some things to consider: This takes place a long while before the events of the Hobbit, Legolas and Thranduil hardly ever speak in the universe of this fic (you shall see why), and I have not included any Sindarin speech in here because I figured they would speak it all the time anyway ^_^

In the tranquil, dark atmosphere of his private chambers, the Elvenking began to prepare for the evening. The day’s toils had been trying, to say the least – political disagreements between the internal hierarchy had set every one of his advisers on edge and the tension had disconcerted him. As he shed his heavy outer robes and ornate crown into the hands of his attending servants, he also cast off the undesirable sentiments, yearning for the period of solitude that was to come.

“Will that be all, my lord?” one servant queried, the other by her side. They never ceased to scrutinize him with the apprehension of frightened rabbits, eyes wide and postures unyielding. 

“Yes, you are both dismissed,” replied Thranduil offhandedly, sending them away with a flick of his fingers. The only individuals remaining were the stoic guards just beyond the door and they had yet to cause any bother.

He poured a glass of wine and lowered himself into a chair, taking in the silence with eager ears. His spacious bedchambers were located in a part of the palace where those he ruled over seldom ventured. It could even be said that only elves of royal blood walked the serene corridors. Before he knew it the king had emptied his glass; he blamed it on his wayward thoughts. Perhaps another glassful was in order…

The quiet was pierced suddenly by a knock on the door, light to the ears of men but thunderous to the ears of an elf. “You may enter,” Thranduil intoned, curious as to who could possibly require his attention at this late hour.

He was more than a bit taken aback when his son appeared through the doorway. The young prince had also traded his daily attire for a more casual set of garb, muted cerulean in color. His hair was freshly cared for. 

Thranduil fixed Legolas with a sort of indifferent stare, not moving from where he sat. “This is indeed an uncommon occurrence. What brings you to my chambers this night? Clearly you did not come to merely _exist_ as my son.”

Legolas approached the king, hands clasped behind his back. He shook his head slightly, “You think so little of me,” then a pause. Thranduil did not react to the ingenuous declaration and waited for Legolas to summon the courage to speak further. When it finally happened, it was just as Thranduil has suspected. “I have an important matter to discuss with you.” 

A grim smirk. “ _Ah_ , so the truth surfaces!” He studied the yet-empty wine glass in his hand, tracing a finger around the top. “Well, go on. What is it that so plagues you that you feel the need to visit me in private?”

Ever the linguist, Legolas started with dithering, “I…” then fell silent for an instant, gaze fixated on the floor. “I wish to receive your permission to take a wife.” 

Those were the last words Thranduil expected from his mouth, and the Elvenking sat stunned. Certainly Legolas had not found a suitable match within these halls! There was not a soul present that would befit the prince. And then there was the matter of his stage of life – he was not yet ready to ascend the throne as Thranduil was still very much alive. A wife would be peculiar at this time; it would not be for the better. Of course, Thranduil would wait to express these concerns until he acquired a name.

“You intend to join in betrothal _now_ , Legolas? Your intended must be of some prominence.” Thranduil placed the wine glass on the table beside him and stood, moving towards the younger elf. “Tell me her name so that I may delight in your decision.” 

Legolas grew even more sheepish, still refusing to look at Thranduil. “You are mistaken, I am afraid. Prominence, she has little of, but find myself taken with her even so.”

The king’s features hardened, a scowl forming on his lips. “You avoid my request. _What is her name_?”

“Tauriel, your Captain of the Guard.”

Once again Legolas had astonished Thranduil into silence. “A _Silvan_ elf?” he scoffed when he had processed what he had heard, an acidic smile replacing the scowl. “You jest, surely.” But Legolas said nothing. “Put this idea of yours out of your head, for I will not allow you to sully our bloodline,” jeered Thranduil. His expression had grown unfriendly again.

 _Tauriel, indeed_! Thranduil thought, taking the decanter of wine in one hand, the glass in the other, and striding through the large, open doorway to the inner sanctum of his rooms. His indignation burned for his son: how could the boy consider betraying him in this manner? What could he possibly have to gain from marrying _down_? It was as if Thranduil would never be rid of the “social ladder” conflict!

Although having been unceremoniously dismissed, Legolas had followed him, concerned. “Do not hold your anger, father!” he cried. “Are we not to marry for love?”

“You do not _love_ her, you hardly know her – do not fool yourself!”

“Did you not marry for love?” Legolas’ voice had softened, but it did nothing but add further cracks to the ancient elf’s façade. Thranduil stopped dead, not moving a muscle. His hands clenched around the glass he carried and he squared his shoulders. The final blow was delivered behind a veil of despondency, “Was my mother not of Silvan blood?”

The lost Elvenqueen was not a topic that anyone brought up, especially around the king. Thranduil had spent centuries building up his internal walls around his memories of her, though their effectiveness was dubious whenever she was mentioned. Legolas had not spoken of his mother around him for longer than he could remember – perhaps he had never really spoken of her in the first place. He set his jaw, placing the wine and glass down yet again. Then, he turned to face Legolas with his arms rigid at his side.

“That is of no consequence now. The times were different, they were a purer branch of people,” drawled Thranduil in a voice so eerily calm that it frightened the prince. 

“That is no excuse for hypocrisy!”

As quickly as the calm had fallen over him, Thranduil responded with an upsurge of swift, venomous words. “Senseless boy! You know _nothing_ of what you speak! Your daft mind cannot even _begin_ to comprehend what _hell_ has brought about what you call _hypocrisy_!” He rounded on the younger elf, Legolas instinctually backing further into the room, alarmed by the display of intensity. “Your _infantile fancies_ can bring about nothing but harm and I will not allow any son of mine to bring further damnation upon this line!”

“Cease this madness!” shouted Legolas when his back collided with the uncomfortable solidness of the wall.

The Elvenking happened to look from Legolas over to a nearby mirror. What he saw startled him. His face was contorted with rage, the array of gruesome scars marring the left side of his face visible for his son to see. He had lost control and paid the price. He draw a strangled breath, releasing some of the tension as he tried to grasp hold of reality and rendered the disfigurements invisible. Thranduil’s attention flicked back to Legolas, who was braced against the wall dazed and distressed. The younger, ethereal face was perfect, so unlike his own mutilated visage. 

Legolas had the queen’s features, softer and more youthful than the king’s. His hair was as his sire’s, however – the queen has possessed hair as black as night. Thranduil felt as though his consciousness was separate from him being looking at his progeny.

“ _Father_ …?” he heard Legolas ask, the voice sounding very far away. 

He had struggled so long to bury all memories of she whom he had once loved that by the time he had covered them the insanity of loneliness had taken its toll. His stability had been worn down, yes, but he could feign faultlessness just as he feigned an unspoiled face.

It was in that moment that Thranduil understood the depth of his own depravity, and it terrified him.

...

...

...

His father’s eyes had taken on a faraway quality, unnerving in their depthless unblinking. Legolas saw the anger retreat from Thranduil’s frame, but it was replaced by something much more troubling: apprehension. The Elvenking contemplated him as if he did not know him for what felt like a millennia.

“You remind me of her,” Thranduil finally murmured, sounding confounded. Bitterness was again evident when he stated, “I can scarcely stand to _look_ at you some days.” He raised a hand to Legolas’ face and slowly trailed his fingers downwards over the prince’s mouth, stopping at his jaw. The rings he wore were cold. “You share her face.” Legolas’ eyes widened – any physical contact was few and far between in their household. Thranduil was always detached and only spoke to Legolas when necessary. Never since his early youth had Legolas been embraced as a son.

“I do not wish on you this pain. I do not wish on you this _madness_.”

Thranduil withdrew then, and Legolas finally released a breath, becoming aware of how close the older elf had been.

The king braced his arms on the table where his drink sat, leaning over it and whispering, “Go now.”

Legolas wanted to protest, wanted to ask for forgiveness for his wrongs and promise that he would forget the request he had come for in the first place, but he knew now that Thranduil would have none of it and that the state of affairs had a high possibility of turning dangerous once more. So he tore himself away from the wall, forcing his legs to move, and left the chambers without looking back. 

As the door closed behind him and he bid the guards a somnolent and cautious farewell, he heard the shattering of glass from within.


End file.
